The Sky To Hold Them
by Little.Miss.Xanda
Summary: The prejudice Purebloods had against Muggle-borns ran far deeper than they had been lead to believe. The wound had been let to fester, infecting all those that came after. Centuries later, the Ambrogio Bloodline was once again ready to claim the Throne and set things right.


**Disclaimer**: Anything you recognize belongs to the incomparable J. K. Rowling. No money is being made from this.

**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Season Seven – Round Six**

**Captain for the Tutshill Tornados**

**Round 6**

Much Ado About Shakespeare

* * *

_Now, I'm well aware that Shakespeare isn't everyone's cup of tea. Personally, I hated it until I acted in one and now I love it. But, whatever your stance on Shakespeare, you have to admit that he was good at telling a story. The key to those stories? The classic themes and plot points that crop up in several of his plays._

Captain: _Monarchy. _Write about Wizarding Royalty. (This can be interpreted however you like — a wizarding version of the royal family, a person/family that is revered as if they were royalty, etc.)

**Word count:2931**

* * *

**The Sky To Hold Them**

Harry stopped himself from slamming the door. He wouldn't give Umbridge another reason to give him detention. One more week and he would be done with those.

His injured hand throbbed, and once he was several corridors away, he leaned against the wall, slumping further down and ending up on the cold stone floor.

He remained seated, letting the cold numb his body. Maybe, if he stayed like that he could actually sleep through the night for once. Maybe no nightmares would find him here, tucked away in a hidden corridor.

It was not to be. He cursed silently when he heard footsteps coming in his direction. It must be past curfew for the prefects to be making their rounds. It wouldn't surprise him if Umbridge had kept him longer to see if he would get caught.

He scrambled to his feet, looking around and trying to find someplace to hide. He had no idea where he was; he recognized none of the paintings.

"Come, my sweet. Sniff them out."

Harry flattened himself against the wall. Of course, it had to be Filch. He would have taken anyone over him—aside from Umbridge herself.

He shuffled forward, back firmly pressed against the wall, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Just as he was sure that Mrs. Norris had caught his scent, he fell.

Harry barely stopped himself from screaming as the wall vanished from behind him. His heart was near to bursting, thumping widely in his chest.

Then, it was over. His back hit the floor. Instead of a harsh impact, there was a strange softness—it felt almost like a Cushioning Charm.

He remained still, listening to Filch's approaching footsteps, only to hear nothing. He frowned, slowly raising his head. In place of an opening to another hallway, as he had expected, there was a blank stretch of wall. He got up, frown still firmly in place.

Slowly, he reached out to touch the wall. His hand made contact with solid stone. He drew his wand.

"_Lumos_."

Instead of a small ball of light appearing from his wand, the whole room lit up, small floating orbs lining the walls.

Harry stared. He had never been in this room before. He was also sure that it wasn't on the Marauders Map. There was a layer of dust over every surface that made it clear that no one had been in the room for a very long time, not even house-elves.

What caught and kept Harry's attention were the shelves covering the wall nearest to him. While the other four walls had an assortment of weapons, tapestries, and paintings decorating them, the one closest to him was covered from floor to ceiling in books.

He was no Hermione, but even he felt awed at the books. They were old! Older than any others he had ever seen. He itched to run his fingers over the covers, to touch the leather-bound tomes and find out what secrets were entrusted to their pages.

He walked passed the round table at the center of the room, eyes locked on the shelves.

"Your name, boy?"

Harry almost jumped out of his skin, spinning and raising his wand. His eyes darted back and forth frantically, but he saw no one.

He heard a sigh and swirled around once more, a spell on the tip of his tongue.

"No need for violence," that same smooth, deep voice said. "Up here."

Harry looked up, eyes widening when he saw a portrait of an aristocratic man. He was middle-aged, just a hint of gray in his otherwise dark hair.

"Now, your name, boy?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, then said, "Harry. Harry Potter."

"Potter?" The man frowned. "That is not a name known to me. Are you a Newblood?"

"I…" Harry shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm a Half-blood."

"That designation is unknown to me as well." The man waved his hand. "Matters not. You could not be a Newblood since you are in this room."

The man leaned closer to the frame, then—almost giving Harry a mild panic attack—his hand went through the canvas. Slowly, as if in a horror movie, the arm followed, then the torso and a foot and a leg.

Harry could do nothing but gape as the man literally walked out of the painting.

When he was completely free, he dusted himself off and turned his steely gaze onto Harry.

Harry was frozen in shock—not that anyone could blame him; it wasn't every day someone stepped out of a painting, even in the Wizarding World.

"Yes." The—ghost? Man? Painting come to life to haunt Harry? Whatever it was nodded. "I can feel the taint much better now. Where did you get that cursed scar, boy?"

Apparently, Harry hesitated for far too long, since the man snapped, "Tonight still, if you would. I am unable to sustain this form for long."

Stumbling over his words, Harry described when he had gotten his scar and how he had survived. What harm could it do? It wasn't as if it was a secret.

As he was talking, Harry saw the man's frown grow darker and darker. By the end of it, he was shaking his head. "Poppycock. Magic doesn't work in such a way. You lived because your Bloodline was blessed and sworn to survive. You lived, not because of your mother, but because of your blood."

"My blood?"

The man nodded, though before he could say anything, he looked down and cursed. Harry followed his line of sight, seeing the man's legs slowly fading.

"Come back tomorrow, boy."

"Wait!" Harry reached towards him. "What's your name? Who are you?"

The man smirked. "I'm Alaric. Your many times great-grandfather." Then he was gone, and Harry was left staring at an empty painting in a room with no way out.

His hand dropped, shoulders slumping. "This is just great," he mumbled, looking around the room once more. At least Alaric—his supposed grandfather—could have told him how to get out.

He turned in a full circle. There wasn't even a window out of which he could jump.

He walked back to the wall he had come through, running his hands over the cold stones. Maybe there was a hidden door?

He hissed, as his injured hand bumped into a sharp corner, smearing blood over the edge of the stone. Before his eyes, the wall shimmered. Slowly, he pressed his hand forward, and it slipped right through as if there was no wall at all.

His lips twitched.

Magic would never cease to surprise him.

He peeked out of the room, making sure no one was around, then hurried to the common room; he had a lot to tell his friends.

* * *

"Are you sure it's here?" Ron asked, looking around the partially deserted hallway. "I don't remember patrolling this part of the castle."

Hermione was nodding. "It's one of the few parts the professors do on their own. How did you even end up here? It's not near any classrooms."

Harry shrugged. "Wasn't really thinking of where I was going. Just wanted to put as much distance between me and Umbridge as possible before I decided to go back and curse her." He expertly ignored Hermione's disapproving stare. "Look." He pointed towards a painting of a tower in the middle of a lake. "It's here."

"There's nothing here, mate."

Harry smirked. Before either of his friends could stop him, he took out a potions knife from his pocket and made a small slice on his thumb.

"Harry!"

Ignoring Hermione's shriek, he smeared the blood on the wall.

The wall shimmered once more, and he turned around to look at his friends. They were gaping at the rippling stone.

"Come on." Harry stepped through.

He grinned as he found the room just as he had left it. He waited for his friends to join him. After several moments of them not showing up, he frowned. He raised his hand, touching the stone: it was solid.

He let a bit of blood touch the wall before stepping through. "Why didn't you come after me?"

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. "We tried." She motioned towards Ron. "Ran face first into the wall."

Now that Harry was looking at him, he could see a faint red mark on Ron's forehead. His lips twitched, and Ron scowled.

"Sure, laugh it up."

"Maybe if we hold on to you?" Hermione said, approaching the wall. "Or use our blood?"

Harry handed her the knife, handle first. "Try it."

She nicked her thumb, watching as a drop of blood formed on the tip, then swept it over the stone. They stared at it, waiting for the telltale sign of the rippling, only nothing happened.

Hermione frowned, then handed the knife to Ron. "Your turn."

Ron did it, too. Again, nothing happened.

Harry's heart beat erratically. Was the door closed for good? Had they lost access to it? Just the thought of it was enough to turn him into a tight ball of anxiety, which was stupid. It was only a room with a strange portrait-ghost thing. It meant nothing.

"Hold onto Harry," Hermione said. "We'll walk through with him."

"But the door won't show."

Her exasperated eye-roll was a familiar comfort. "It won't open for _us_." She grabbed onto his shoulder. "Give him the knife, Ron."

Uncertain, Harry opened the small cut on his thumb once again.

His heart soared as the wall shimmered. He walked through, bringing Hermione and Ron with him.

"Bloody hell," Ron whispered.

Harry saw Hermione's awed expression from the corner of his eye and couldn't help but grin. He couldn't wait until they saw Alaric.

"I see you brought company."

Hermione and Ron startled, while Harry smiled at his supposed many times great-grandfather.

"They're my best friends," he said, and Alaric nodded.

"Yes, I can feel that." Alaric looked at them, a small smile on his lips. "A pleasure, young Guardians." He motioned towards the chairs. "Take a seat, I believe we have much to discuss."

Ron, naturally, took the red armchair at the table. Hermione rolled her eyes and sat on the green one. Harry, hands fluttering over the soft material, took a seat on the orange one.

The armchairs were the most colorful things in the whole room—aside from one. Seven out of the eight were eye-catching bright.

Orange. Yellow. Red. Green. Blue. Purple. Indigo.

Harry felt his skin prickling just looking at the colors. A deep sense of satisfaction washed over him when he looked at Ron and Hermione sitting on those armchairs, even while longing filled his being. The others being empty felt utterly wrong. As if pieces of him were missing.

"Good." Alaric nodded, then, shocking Ron and Hermione speechless, he climbed out of the painting.

"Bloody hell!" Ron jumped out of his seat, tipping it backward.

"Harry?" Hermione stood as well, leaning towards Harry, shielding him, as was her habit.

"Take your seats, young Guardians. I mean your Sky no harm." Alaric seated himself on the black armchair facing Harry's.

Ron snorted, wand already in hand and pointed at Alaric. "Yeah, right. As if we haven't heard that before," he said at the same time as Hermione asked, "Sky?"

Alaric barely spared Ron a glance before focusing on Hermione. "You don't know what a Sky is?"

Hermione shook her head, slowly going back to her seat. Ron grumbled but followed her lead.

"What about the Ambrogio Bloodline?" Alaric asked.

Ron slapped his hand against the table. "Don't speak that name!"

Harry looked between the two confused. "Ron?"

Ron took a deep breath. "Sorry. It's… it's hard. The Ambrogio Bloodline… they were our Kings."

Harry's eyes widened.

"Kings?" Hermione leaned forward. "The Wizarding World has a royal family? What about the British monarchy?"

Ron sneered. "We don't follow their ruling." He looked away. "Our royal family was killed. Betrayed by a trusted advisor of the King. A Muggle-born who was working for the British monarchy." Ron glanced at Hermione. "It's why so many Purebloods despise Muggle-borns; it's not about your blood. It's because they believe you are loyal to the Muggle Queen, to the family that betrayed our Kings. It's why they call us blood-traitors."

Hermione spluttered, equal parts offended and eager to hear more.

"Why aren't we taught this in History of Magic?" Harry asked. It was far more interesting than the Goblin Wars.

Ron shrugged, slumping on his armchair. "Too painful. Our magics are still itching because of it."

"Not your magic," Alaric said. "Your Flames."

Books appeared on the center of the table, each one matching the colors of the armchairs, with a title and a characteristic written in bold font. Only the ones by Harry, Ron and Hermione's spots remained for longer than a moment.

_Orange—__**Sky Flame – Characteristic: Harmony**_

_Red—__**Storm Flame – Characteristic: Disintegration**_

_Green—__**Lightning Flame – Characteristic: Hardening**_

Alaric's fingers reached for the books, touching the words on the spines in a faint caress.

"Elements under the same Sky. Only our Bloodline could be Skies. We called them to us. Everyone has Flames; it's our very Souls. Some though… some harmonize with our Sky. They complete us, and we are their home." He looked at Ron. "Haven't you felt your Flames settle since you met Harry? Don't you feel more at peace? Don't you feel at home?"

The tips of Ron's ears turned pink, and Alaric smiled gently.

"My Mist, Thane, he… he didn't betray me."

Ron's gasp was only a moment after Hermione's, finally understanding what was right in front of them.

"The British Monarch had his lover. They threatened her life. He was always such a soft heart, so much loyalty towards those he cared about." Alaric closed his eyes. "He took my life; however, he made sure that my wife and son escaped. He hid them with his Mist, smuggling them out, and secreting them away. He was hunted down for his betrayal by my other Elements. He was killed by those he considered brothers and sisters. And not once did he tell anyone where my family was. He took the secret to his grave. Kept the Bloodline safe the only way he could, the only way he believed would work." Alaric looked up, smiling as his eyes locked with Harry's. "I'm glad to have finally been able to meet you."

Then, he vanished once more.

Ron seemed numb for the first few moments, just sitting in his red armchair, staring at the books. Hermione wasn't much better.

Surprisingly, Ron was the first to reach towards the books. He went straight for the red one—Storm Flames. Not long after, Hermione grabbed the green one—Lightning Flames. Harry hesitated, then took the orange one—Sky Flames.

The books were eye-opening, to say the least.

* * *

Since Alaric had dropped that little bomb on them, Harry found himself with two constant shadows.

He felt a shiver run down his spine and knew Hermione had just entered the common room.

She sat next to him, and Harry's magic surged under his skin; no, not magic—his Flames. Now that he knew what it was, he couldn't help but wonder how he had never felt the difference before. It made so much sense now.

Why they had been so close, the bond they had formed so early on. They were his Guardians, and he was their Sky.

Ron slumped on his other side, more at ease than Harry had ever seen him. Well, that was a bit of a stretch. When they were near Umbridge or Malfoy, Ron was more volatile than ever.

They couldn't even look at Harry wrong and Ron would curse up a storm—pun intended.

"We should go to the room," Hermione said, closing her book, gently running her hand over the cover.

Harry nodded. It was time.

* * *

Alaric smiled as he saw them. "Welcome back," he said, climbing out of his portrait.

Harry grinned, while Hermione and Ron bowed their heads—all three of them still awed at the magic. They took their seats, Hermione laying her book on the table.

"I've been thinking," she said, and Ron muttered, "What's new?"

He mimicked zipping his mouth closed when she glared at him.

"As I said, I've been thinking. Harry needs his other Guardians. I… I'm feeling stretched. There's always this itching just under my skin, urging me to be with Harry to make sure my Sky is safe. I know Ron feels the same."

Ron nodded, his fingers tapping on the tabletop. "It's like I'm butter spread too thin over a slice of bread."

Harry snorted at the analogy, only Ron would resort to food to explain how he was feeling.

Alaric nodded. "It's always harsh on Guardian bonds when the set isn't complete."

"How do I find them? I know they are here, at least some. I feel my Flames tugging at bonds that aren't formed."

"Follow your Flames. It's your soul, it won't lead you wrong."

Harry nodded. He leaned forward, steeling himself. "The Throne… Is it…"

Alaric's lips stretched into a wide grin.

"The Monarchy is still the ruling body in the Wizarding World. No other Governmental body has precedence."

"Harry?" Hermione's eyes were bright, a glint of anticipation in them.

Harry looked away from Alaric, focusing on his two best friends, his first Guardians.

"I think it's time the Ministry be accountable for its actions."

Ron's laughter would have had Umbridge running for the hills. Then again, with any luck, she would be far too stupid to run.

Harry was looking forward to it.

* * *

**A.N.:** Thank you yo my wonderful team for betaing. They're life-savers :)

To all those that recognized the bits from KHR, if this ever becomes a multi-chapter, it'll become a crossover way further down the line, after Harry has dealt with the Wizarding World.


End file.
